Chapter Eight
THE LINE GOES DEAD
Lights in the interior of the bus were out now for Curt didn't dare runthe risk that they might interfere with his vision. The heavy vehicleswayed from side to side as they bounced over the winding road and Janetand Helen clung to each other for protection.
Smoke was swirling across the road and the acrid fumes swept through theopen windows of the bus, but there was no time now to close them.
They raced out of the valley they had been in, shot up over a slightrise, and descended into another valley, the glare of the flames beinglost to view for the time.
"Think we'll make it?" gasped Helen, clinging tightly to Janet's rightarm.
"We've got to," replied Janet. "The last shots for the picture are inthe bus."
"I'm not worrying about the picture; it's us," retorted Helen. "My eyeshurt; so do my feet."
Janet couldn't help smiling for Helen was very much matter of fact.
There was a sharp report under the bus, like a gunshot or the backfireof the exhaust. But it was neither and the girls were thrown heavilyagainst the side of the bus as the left rear tire let go.
The heavy machine swayed dangerously with Curt fighting for control. Thebrakes screamed as they ground to a stop and Curt leaped out to surveythe damage. The driver followed him and then Billy Fenstow followed.
The driver turned on his flashlight and Janet could hear Curt's mutteredexclamation of disgust.
"We can change; we've got a spare," the driver said.
"We've got to and we'll have to work fast," snapped Curt.
Under the lashing directions of the cowboy star, other members of thecompany turned to and lent a hand. Tools were taken out, a big jack wasplaced under the rear axle, and the work started.
From somewhere behind came the ominous roar of the fire and the skybehind the ridge they had just topped crimsoned. Helen, her thin oxfordsbadly cut, shifted miserably from one foot to another and longed for ahot bath in which to soak her aching feet.
While Curt and several assistants wrestled with the task of getting theflat tire off, the driver managed to get the spare wheel down from itsrack at the rear.
"Not much air in it," he grumbled.
"There never is," snapped Curt, "but you know how to use a pump."
Billy Fenstow seized the pump, fastened the hose to the valve on thetire, and bent his tired body to the task of increasing the air pressurein the big tire.
It was a tedious, wracking job, and the men alternated, working at topspeed for a minute, then giving way to another fresher one.
Curt, scanning the horizon above the ridge, urged them to greater haste.
"Fire's getting close," he warned. "We've got to get under way."
Billy Fenstow unfastened the pump and Curt seized the big steel wheelwith its huge casing. Other willing hands helped him get it on the axle.Anxious fingers sped the bolts into place and they tightened them asrapidly as possible.
"Get going!" Curt yelled at the driver.
"How about the jack?"
"Never mind that. Throw her in gear and she'll come off. That fire'scoming fast now."
As though in answer to Curt's warning, the flames shot over the top ofthe nearest ridge and started down. They seemed to be racing now withthe speed of a greyhound, leaping from thicket to thicket withunbelievable rapidity.
Janet and Helen, clinging together on the back seat, watched it withfascinated eyes. The fire was a living, advancing thing that mightsurround and swallow them in its flaming greed. The thought sent adeadening chill through Janet and for a moment she closed her eyes tothe red spectacle.
The motor of the bus roared again as Curt trod heavily on the starter.The big vehicle pulsated with power and there was the crash of gears asthey lurched ahead and the left rear wheel dropped off the jack.
Like a frightened elephant the bus leaped forward, its headlights oncemore boring through the smoke-laden night air.
Curt drove with reckless abandon, tramping the accelerator down almostto the floor boards. His passengers were flung from one side of thelunging vehicle to another, but they knew that only in speed now laytheir hope for salvation and none of them cried out as their bruisedbodies were flung back and forth.
Janet and Helen managed to wedge themselves in a corner where, byclinging together, they could escape with only a minimum of bouncingabout.
Suddenly the road straightened out and the smoke thinned. Janetrecognized where they were. It was the last half mile which led back tothe ranch where they had completed shooting the new picture only thatafternoon.
They had outdistanced the racing flames and Curt reduced the wild speedof the bus. In less than five minutes they swung into the broad yard ofthe ranch, but there were no lights in the house nor in the bunkhouse.
Curt blasted sharply on the horn, but there was no sign or sound of lifeanywhere.
"Looks like everyone's sound asleep," said Billy Fenstow, who wasrubbing his bruises gingerly.
"They've probably taken to the hills," replied Curt.
They unloaded and entered the ranchhouse. Curt lighted a lamp and it wasevident from the disorder in the rooms that the owners had fled hastily.The corrals were open and all of the stock had been turned loose.
Janet and Helen stopped beside the water tank. Their throats were dryand tasted heavily of smoke so they drank deeply of the cool, freshwater.
Curt, pausing for a moment, stuck his whole head in the tank, and thendrank from the cup the girls offered him. As he gulped down the water hewatched the crimson horizon northwest of the ranch.
"Looks like we're going to be safe here unless the wind swings around alittle more," he observed.
"I'm worried about the folks. They know what time we were going to startback and they'll be frantic when they hear about the fire," said Helen.
"Phone line may still be up," said Curt. "Go in the house and see if youcan get a call through."
Helen turned and hastened toward the house while Curt rejoined the men,who were staying near the bus. The driver was buried under the hoodagain, making sure that there would be no recurrence of their previousengine trouble.
Janet followed Helen into the ranchhouse. The phone, an old-fashionedwall instrument, was in the dining room. There was a large plate ofcookies, evidently left from supper, on the table, and neither girlcould resist helping herself to several. Helen munched them as shecranked the telephone and listened for an answer from the operator inthe nearest town. At last the response came.
Helen, talking rapidly, gave her father's address and phone number inHollywood. In less than five minutes the call was through and she heardher father's voice on the other end of the wire.
"Hello, Dad. This is Helen."
"Where are we? Back at the ranch. No, we're safe enough. The bus brokedown and we had to turn back when the fire cut us off.
"Now don't worry, Dad. Curt Newsom says he thinks the fire will swingaround us. If it doesn't, we can take to the hills back of the ranch.We'll come through all right. Tell Mother not to worry.
"What's that----?"
Helen repeated the question, then looked blankly at Janet.
"See if you can hear him," she urged and Janet took the receiver.
"Hello, Mr. Thorne," she said. But there was no answer. She repeated thequestion and this time when there was no answer mechanically hung up thereceiver.
"The line's dead," she told Helen. "The fire must have brought down thepoles."
The girls stared hard at each other through smoke-rimmed eyes. Thetelephone had given them a sense of security, a feeling of contact withthe outside world. Now they were cut off with the flames behind them andonly the rugged hills ahead.
Janet Hardy in Radio City Page 8
